The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays

by Nigel Kneale

  DEANIE (clutching his arm): See, you upset her—

  KETEN: Who gets sent?

  DEANIE: Nobody.

  KETEN (dogged and shrill): You said she!

  Nat stares at the child, dimly recognising her apprehension as something like his own. She stands there twisting the plastic toy in her hands. Her eyes are round and accusing. For the first time she is a real person to him.

  DEANIE: Keten—

  KETEN: Who’s she? What do you mean?

  It suddenly seems vital to get in between her and the knowledge. As soon as Deanie touches her she stiffens.

  DEANIE: He—he got it all mixed up, Keten. He got it all wrong. (She looks to Nat for support) Take her hand. Tell her.

  Nat comes forward. He is surprised by the smallness of the hand. Surprised, too, to find himself so moved when he addresses her directly by name.

  NAT: Keten. I got it all wrong.

  INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

  To the tune of the standard march-lullaby, numbered bodies are squirming on the big screen. Nat and Lasar Opie are at the control desk. Misch is in her plastic dome.

  MISCH: . . . Ylla Basie and Don Goon. Don’s one of the new top finds of Area 27 . . . since he teamed up with Ylla he come a long way.

  OPIE: Pretty. Real pretty style, this two.

  Nat hardly notices. He is still deep in his spasm of self-discovery. He turns to the Audience Sampler. The usual faces are there, heavy and vacant. There are young people among them, quite young anyway. As apathetic as the rest but still young . . .

  INSIDE NAT’S ROOM

  Nat is lying on his back on the bench-shaped seat in his room, lost in thought. The big screen is bright with an Artsex show accompanied, musically, by a twee and gracious version of a bump-and-grind. Misch is standing in front of the screen, imitating the motions of the performer, though she is fully dressed.

  MISCH: What got you, coddy? (Nat does not reply) You sick?

  NAT: No.

  MISCH: You look sick or tired. Is it work?

  NAT: No.

  MISCH: Olympics bother you? (He turns away without replying) Grumpy coddy! (She continues her copied poses. We do not see the screen now, only guess what it shows from her attitudes) She got a big shelf, this bubby. Real jumbo shelf. (Comparing her own bosom) Not so pretty, though. Walks funny, too, sort of lope. (She walks up and down in savage imitation) Where they get this talent! Talent . . . ! Look at that . . . stands like a dispenser out of order! (Swaying grotesquely) Oooh! Hold me up, somebody! Lemme hang on the drapes . . . ! (Laughing) Where they get ’em! Bet they got this last one out there.

  Her words register with Nat at last.

  NAT: Out there?

  MISCH: Oh, coddy—you awake? (Sarcastically) Super-king!

  NAT: What about out there?

  MISCH (still gyrating): They find much talent out there?

  NAT: Not much. Got to be high-drive. Just odd ones turn up.

  MISCH: This bubby real odd. They need to throw her back. (To get away from it, Nat rises and throws himself face down on the bed. Misch turns with a lecherous squeal) That better! Just a minute, I be right with you . . . just watch this bit . . .

  NAT (wearily): Knock it off.

  MISCH: Knock what off?

  NAT: Don’t like the show—so knock it off.

  But Misch, having finally got his attention, is turning coquettish.

  MISCH: Not like it? Why not? Not her, maybe, not this one bubby, but I like Artsex. I like to watch. So don’t tell me to knock it off—(Undemonstratively but effectively, Nat covers his ears. She has turned back to the screen and does not notice) I got an idea. Nat . . . what say I switch to Artsex? Not just talkie-talk but do her job? Do it a lot better than that . . . better than her. I walk better . . . got a better shape . . . move better when I—!

  She breaks off with a frightened scream.

  It penetrates Nat’s ear defences and he springs up to see her shrinking back from the screen in horror. The screen is filled with Kin Hodder’s latest picture, that he drew on the tray . . . the stark and awful face of the man in agony.

  Misch’s shocked screams go on, shorter and sharper . . .

  INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

  Co-ordinator Priest frowns down at the ratings strip in the control desk. Its light throbs.

  PRIEST: Look at that. Ratings still jumpy after 20 hours! (He turns sympathetically to the Audience Sampler, where a certain amount of uneasy movement is detectable) They got a real upset.

  The big monitor screen shows only random, unfocussed movement, as the studio below is readied for the evening’s Sportsex. In the pod with Priest are Nat and Lasar Opie.

  OPIE: Find him yet?

  PRIEST: Kin Hodder? No—ran off as soon as he did it. Must be hiding up. Lots of places. Store sections, casings . . . (Guessing what Nat is thinking) We checked on Deanie Webb.

  NAT: Oh.

  PRIEST: Not gone there.

  OPIE (hungrily): What happens when you get him?

  PRIEST: We help him.

  NAT: If you can.

  PRIEST: If we can. (A new girl introducer pushes past on her way to the domed booth) Where’s Misch?

  NAT: Still a bit in shock.

  OPIE (to desk): Studio, start warm-up.

  He goes to help the girl get settled in the booth.

  PRIEST: Not the only one, a long way. Out there it was bad, bad, bad. We got reports in from all areas that picture got to . . . they shudder me, Nat. Nat, were you mixed up in it?

  The question is shot in so quickly that Nat is taken aback.

  NAT: Me?

  PRIEST (quietly): He showed it to you. Some others too.

  NAT: Who said? (He glances at the unaware Opie, then:) Not Deanie. Misch?

  PRIEST (admitting it): She’s not so much in shock as you think. Well? Did you put him up to it?

  NAT: No . . . no.

  PRIEST: I buy that. Glad to, Nat. This is a dirty thing—to throw that at a quiet, cosy audience right in the middle of a—

  NAT: Did you see it?

  Priest nods, with an expression of extreme distaste at the memory.

  PRIEST: Later. It was made on a tray.

  NAT: I saw them all. (Priest clucks sympathetically) They were . . . we not got words for them, Co-ordinator. Maybe you got some. Old-days words.

  PRIEST (grimly): I got some. Filthy. Disgusting. Offensive. Foul. Disturbing. And all those add up to one word . . . the worst word of the lot. Tension!

  NAT: Tension. That was what he said. “I want tension!”

  PRIEST (appalled): He said that . . . !

  THE RECREATION AREA

  Priest and Nat are gulping down brighteners in the Recreation Area. There are a number of other Output personnel present, talking more animatedly than usual. The big wall-screen shows a Patterning programme, with soft music.

  NAT: Still not feel I got . . . the right words for it. They got to be some place. Where they go, Co-ordinator? Why they go, all those words?

  PRIEST: People didn’t need ’em. They got out of having the thoughts, so the words went too.

  NAT: Thoughts . . . (Slowly, making a discovery) Those pictures were thoughts!

  PRIEST: Eh?

  NAT: That what they felt like. Old, old thoughts you had . . . real jumbo thoughts but you forgot you ever had ’em . . . until you saw!

  PRIEST: Bad thoughts.

  NAT: Why bad?

  PRIEST: If they upset people.

  NAT: Just the way they came out. You know, I can feel ’em now . . . in my head. I can think ’em. But I got no words for ’em.

  PRIEST: They hurt?

  NAT: No. (He considers) Well, a bit.

  PRIEST: Bad.

  NAT: Maybe . . . maybe we need ’em just the same. Maybe we need to try ’em . . . try all kinds of thoughts.

  PRIEST: Maybe is a terrible word. Oh Nat . . . (He sighs and turns away, to fetch up by the Auto-chess. Most of the other people have drifted out of the Recreation Area. He takes a
plastic ploy at random and shoves it into the slot to make the chessmen start moving) I remember . . . no, I don’t, but I remember the people who do remember. The time before Apathy Control. That was the real “maybe” time. Everything got tried then. Bombs and books and prayers . . . and love and the last of the politics. It all added up to tension. And the more tension, the more people they got. They were just building up the explosion.

  NAT: Crazy!

  PRIEST: It shuddered them all. And they tried more things to stop it. You know—(He splutters with laughter)—you know, they even tried to stop it with the Pill!

  The sheer absurdity of it makes Nat burst into laughter too.

  NAT: Not the Pill!

  PRIEST: Tried to force it, and they got the Virility Wars! Tried dropping it in the drinking water and they got revolution! (He wipes his eyes, chuckling and gasping. He looks at the cluster of dead brighteners clutched in his hand. He wheezes) Thought these things . . . supposed to cancel out.

  NAT (nods hazily and happily): After ten.

  PRIEST (chuckling again): Must be on top of . . . all the strain. (They are both as if slightly tight. Priest tries to sober himself, and instead drifts into a faintly maudlin mood) Anywise, we got Apathy Control. Good old Apathy Control. Saved us all. (He looks earnestly at Nat, who is sucking another brightener, and takes one more himself) It did, Nat.

  NAT (equally solemnly): Keep Cool, Cool the Audience, Cool the World.

  PRIEST: It was what the world wanted. Just to call a big halt. No more . . . progress. It was done kindly. Not by lasering foetuses . . . chemical conditioning . . . electrodes . . . threats. None of that. Just by gentle discouragement. (He looks fuzzily at the crunched brighteners) They meant to cancel. (He takes another and sucks it) The world having a rest, Nat. All them out there, waiting. You know what they are? A reservoir . . . of genes. A huge genetic stockpile . . . just . . . waiting till it’s safe to go on again.

  NAT (taking it in): I said: What are they for? And that’s it—

  PRIEST: That’s it. To give humanity a chance to . . . survive a million years. Just to draw level with the least successful dinosaurs!

  NAT (after a moment): Dinosaurs?

  PRIEST (too tired to explain): Oh . . . some old-days things. (They look down at the chessmen, who have come to a halt. Priest pushes another ploy in) Get on. (As the chessmen start off again) It’s a trust, Nat. So . . . no Kin Hodders. No Kin Hodders?

  Nat shakes his head. Priest claps his arm about Nat’s shoulders and they go out together. The Recreation Area is left deserted.

  After a moment a hand appears over the edge of the bar, then a face. It is Kin Hodder. He looks pale and frightened. He snatches some of the globular meringue-like confections from a half-empty dish and gobbles them . . .

  INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

  It is a time between shows. Opie and Misch are consulting in a corner of the pod. Priest comes in and joins Nat where he is staring gloomily at the Audience Sampler.

  PRIEST: When you last see ’em laugh?

  NAT: Laugh?

  PRIEST: Not in a long time?

  NAT: Not much.

  PRIEST (grimly): It’s what they got to do! (Confidentially) Computer findings, just in. (He suddenly seizes Nat’s hand and claps it against his own stomach. He gives a loud, deep-based guffaw. Uttered quite without humour, it is a little alarming) Feel that shake? Real calisthenic. It’s comfy, it’s cosy, good for lungs and belly. But right on top of all, laughing is safe! (He turns to Opie and Misch, who are looking mildly startled) Get it, Misch? Pal Opie? We got to make ’em laugh!

  OPIE: Computer findings?

  PRIEST: My findings. (Smiling at his little joke) Computer of course. But I go along with it. To agree with the computer, that gladdens me.

  OPIE: Make ’em laugh . . .

  PRIEST: Perfect minimal stimulant. But they don’t do it. Even the Hungry-Angry Show, not even at that. Now this we got to fix!

  OPIE: If it what they need . . .

  PRIEST: What they need, what they got to get! In all shows. Sportsex too. Well, pals?

  MISCH (aghast): I got to be funny?

  OPIE (quickly): We can fix it, Co-ordinator!

  PRIEST: Good talk. Good talk, pal Opie! Nat?

  Nat turns from his glum regard of the Audience Sampler.

  NAT: It’s a dare.

  PRIEST: Right . . . that’s right! A real jumbo dare!

  INSIDE FOODSHOW STUDIO

  The foodshow studio is a mess. The air is thick with flying joke food. A long refectory table is loaded with dishes of custard . . . giant pies . . . mushy fruits. Actors in an extraordinary medley of period costumes, from Roman togas to doublet-and-hose, are hurling the stuff at each other with great speed and dexterity. As they duck and dodge and smother each other to grotesque Spike-Jones-type music, the result is quite funny.

  Studio attendants stand by with more custard in buckets and tubs. Priest and Deanie are watching, both dressed in transparent protective clothing.

  PRIEST (chuckling): History is crazy!

  DEANIE: History?

  PRIEST: Old-days. (Happily) This just got to do it! (But when he turns to the Audience Sampler, his face falls. There is no laughter there. He signals desperately to Deanie) Sure they getting it? The show is live now?

  DEANIE: Yes—

  PRIEST: Step it up! Let’s go!

  She waves the studio attendants into action. Buckets of custard are flung at the actors to build up the effect. Even Priest himself snatches up some pies and lets fly. As he turns anxiously to the screen again, a gobbet of stray custard spatters over him. The Sample Audience is still not laughing.

  PRIEST (hissing at them): Come on, laugh! See it hit him in the eye then? Not funny?

  The music speeds up. The actors move even faster, in a medley of frantic sight gags.

  PRIEST (to the Sampler screen, almost pleading): Whatta matter with you? Come on, come on! Let go, you pigs! It’s what you need! It’s what you want . . . !

  But the Sample Audience is quite unmoved.

  A few minutes later, the show is over and the set looks like the aftermath of a custard blizzard. Panting actors are moving away, glistening and dripping. Priest and Deanie are peeling off their protective clothing.

  PRIEST (angrily): Hah!

  As he passes the Sampler monitor he switches it off, glowering. The attendants move in to mop up. Deanie presses a combination of micro-switches on her wrist contact.

  DEANIE: Nat? Not able to try before. No, not a laugh. But listen. It’s Kin. Kin Hodder. (Guardedly) He got here somewise . . . No, he gone now but what he said . . . Nat, he could try some crazy . . . Nat, if you see him, stop him . . .

  THE STUDIO CATWALK

  A disused caption board with the huge word “Sportsex” painted across a photomontage of lithe bodies hangs flown to the studio roof. A catwalk runs past it. On this Kin Hodder appears, his drawings rolled beneath his arm. He peers cautiously round the caption board, down through the steel ropes and lighting cables.

  NAT’S VOICE (booming, magnified): Stand by, studio . . .

  INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

  In the pod, Nat repeats the instruction to the control desk.

  NAT: Stand by.

  OPIE: Was that Deanie? (Nat nods) Kid okay? (Nat nods again) Deanie calls you a lot. (Nat looks at him) I said Deanie . . . calls you a lot. Deanie.

  Nat is wondering what all this repetition of Deanie’s name is for. Then he sees the reason. Misch has entered, and Opie has noticed her first.

  MISCH (crossly): Deanie? That old bubby still! Nat, you sick and shudder me!

  She makes for her booth. Opie grins.

  NAT: Funny.

  OPIE (innocently): What’s funny?

  NAT: Why people laugh. You laugh like then, when you drop somebody in it. (Nods at Misch) She laugh . . . at people cause they fat or old or . . . not like her.

  MISCH (indignantly): I laugh cause they funny!

  PRIEST (entering)
: What’s about funny?

  NAT: Why people laugh. They say: “It not happened to me!” So they glad, so they laugh.

  PRIEST: Right. Fruit-skin.

  NAT: Fruit—

  PRIEST: You see somebody fall on a fruit-skin, you laugh. It didn’t happen to you. That’s the idea. (He glowers at the Audience Sampler) But out there, it seems they not got the idea yet! Hear about Foodshow?

  NAT: Yes.

  PRIEST (shivers): I never see so much slop go. And all shot real king . . . smack in the eye, smack in the eye, smack in the eye! Nearly made me laugh. But them! (He shoots the Sample a look of loathing, then:) Misch, bubby. Make ’em laugh!

  She dimples. The plastic dome descends over her head.

  THE CATWALK

  Kin Hodder is testing a steel rope, that its fixing is secure.

  NAT’S VOICE: Five seconds, studio.

  Kin jams the roll of drawings into his belt. The studio below suddenly echoes with the brassy Sportsex music. He puts one leg gingerly over the security rail, then the other, and starts climbing down the rope.

  INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

  Opie is turning down the opening music to allow Misch to begin. Nat turns to Priest.

  NAT (innocently): Any word of Kin Hodder?

  PRIEST: No.

  Misch’s face fills the main screen. She beams brightly.

  MISCH: Tonight’s the night, everybody! So was last night. So’s tomorrow night. Never let up, do we?

  Opie forces a dry giggle.

  PRIEST: Trying hard.

  MISCH: Anywise—we got a real crazy super-king show here, and we give it to you! All we want is your eyes and your ears—how about that for a swap? (She laughs aloud to set an example. From her place under the plastic dome she can see the Audience Sampler. The others in the pod are watching it too. Not a ripple on the faces there. Misch sets her grin) We got a run of real top pals for you! So here we go—Round One, and guess who! Duppy Zorn and Greg Bailey! (The first two competitors flash on the screen behind her, acknowledging their round of synthetic applause. Then her own face reappears there) Been on the Sportsex Show a jumbo lot of times, this two. But here’s a crazy laugh—first time they came they got lost! Went this way, that way. Duppy lost Greg. She got in Artsex, doing this—(An instant impression of an Artsex performer, posing and twirling)—and Greg got in Foodshow, all over slop!